


Bent, Not Broken

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Porn With Plot, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Rare Pairings, Rival Sex, Rough Sex, Slash, mention of Uncle-Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daemon Targaryen could claim Criston Cole, not defeat him. The proud Kingsguard bent for Daemon – but only up to a point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bent, Not Broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ars_belli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ars_belli/gifts).



> Let’s assume Daemon Targaryen attended his niece Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor Velaryon, and that – as Mushroom the fool alleged – Rhaenyra did offer her maidenhead to Criston Cole before the wedding, but Cole refused her. And just in general, let’s assume that Mushroom was on point more often than not. I own nothing.

Daemon saw Criston Cole’s hand reach for his sword not a moment before Daemon’s open hand connected violently with the Kingsguard’s shoulder. Cole was not on duty, and so wore only a shirt, tabard, and breeches, all snowy white, his armor left behind in his chambers in the White Sword Tower. Daemon felt taut muscle and tendon under his palm, gripped with intent; saw Cole’s fingers clench around his sword grip, yet not so much as a hair’s breadth of steel showed above Cole’s scabbard as Daemon slammed him against the wall. 

They were in a corridor in the Red Keep – empty for the nonce, though a servant might appear at any moment. The likelihood of discovery fired up Daemon’s intent. Cole’s left forearm pressed against Daemon’s chest to keep some distance between them, while his right hand continued to grip his sword, his knuckles turning white.

“Unhand me, ser,” Cole said in nearly his usual, calm tone. His left arm still pressed crosswise against Daemon’s chest, and his left hand gripped Daemon’s upper arm, strong fingers pressing strong muscle. Daemon stirred at the sensation: Criston Cole was nearly his equal in size, beauty, and fighting skill. 

“Is not obeying House Targaryen your sworn duty, Ser Criston?” Daemon replied, mocking. 

Cole tried to push back against the wall, push Daemon off, shifted his shoulder in Daemon’s grip, testing his opponent. Daemon shoved him back, maintained control, not without some effort. Cole’s sword remained wedged firmly in its scabbard, as though rooted there. He would not fight back against a Targaryen, despite this manhandling posing a dire insult to his dignity.

“I serve his grace the king, ser,” Cole replied, his tone turning thin. “The Kingsguard is not a plaything for your whims.” 

Daemon brought his face close to Cole’s, bared his teeth, wanting to seem like he might bite the other man as easily as he might spit at him. Or kiss him. “The day may yet come when you will call _me_ ‘your grace,’ Cole.”

Cole’s handsome face twisted into a sneer, which made him look somehow even handsomer. Flame licked inside Daemon’s belly, made him want to erase the haughtiness from that face, with his clenched fist or by other means. 

“You will never be king. You are not fit to rule,” Cole hissed. He did not even hesitate before he spat out: “And neither is _she_.” 

Daemon smiled, still baring all his teeth. There it was, the reason for this little altercation: the royal princess who’d been happy to have Daemon teach her the ways of love, yet kept her flower for the underserving Kingsguard struggling in Daemon’s grip.

“How high and mighty you have grown, Ser Criston,” Daemon said. “You presume to refuse a princess royal, the heir to the Iron Throne, when she labored long and hard to prepare herself for you.”

Cole struggled with himself. His pride won out. “His grace is wise,” Cole said, “but even wise men make mistakes.” As faint and as ringing a condemnation of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s character as a man could deliver and keep his head. 

Daemon Targaryen was not given to seeking after his own motives. He had accosted Criston Cole in an empty corridor because Cole had dared to make Rhaenyra weep. Because the man did not know his own good fortune. Because Criston Cole was a handsome upjumped knight who needed to be put in his place. Because Daemon did not question his desires when he could be satisfying them, shooting stars that they were, blazing brief and bright.

Criston Cole was arrogant – he had yet to address Daemon by his full name or title – honorable, angry, displeased, disapproving. A combination as volatile as dragonfire. Daemon decided to stoke those flames. He leaned in closer still, and spoke in Cole’s ear.

“Do not play the fool with me. You may act as virtuous as an old septa, but you’ve thought of it, elsewise you’d not be a man alive with blood running through your veins. She kept her maidenhead for you, though she gave up everything else to me happily enough. You are a fool, Cole, you should relinquish the white cloak and take up Mushroom’s place at court. Though I doubt my sweet niece would still want you up her tight cunny then.”

Daemon felt himself begin to grow hard while he talked. He’d omitted to mention that Rhaenyra once had cried out Criston Cole’s name when Daemon had suckled her breasts. She had shut her eyes and thought of another, of Cole. This pup, this steward’s son, this haughty fool had had the temerity to deny a Targaryen what she desired, and still the fool girl mooned after her white knight with his precious, holy rod. Criston Cole might think himself too good for a mere girl, even a Targaryen one, but he would not deny Daemon Targaryen. 

“You would sit upon the throne, yet you pass the time with thieves and pride yourself on the maidens you debauch,” Cole spat in Daemon’s face. “You as king would be a calamity. I thank the gods it will never come to pass.” 

Daemon bit Criston Cole’s lip. He did not bother disguising it with a kiss, he merely closed the narrow space between them and caught Criston’s red lip between his teeth. And bit down. 

Cole made no sound, which inflamed Daemon’s desire more. Daemon released Cole’s shoulder, the better to press his whole body against the Kingsguard’s, trapping Cole sword arm between them and keeping Cole pressed against the wall. He used the hand which no longer gripped Cole’s muscular shoulder to grab Cole’s crotch instead.

Daemon Targaryen said but one word when he released Cole’s mouth, imbibed the knight’s expression and the feel of his hardening cock, so at odds with each other, like sweet wine: “Liar.”

Cole pressed his lips together, looked Daemon in the eye, and visibly considered his choices. Daemon did not care whether his mind was filled with the thought of Rhaenyra, wanton and wanting him, or the challenge Daemon himself had issued. He hungered to hear what Cole would say, so he might rip into the Kingsguard as he wished.

“I have vows, though you respect them not, and I do not kneel for you, _prince_.”

Daemon moved his hand, squeezing gently, as he might handle overripe fruit. Cole’s eyelashes gave the barest flutter – victory enough.

“You vowed to take no wife and father no children. You can stand and be buggered like a man, _ser_.”

A chamber door stood shut beside them. Daemon kicked it open, caring not for the chamber’s purpose or possible occupants. 

The chamber stood empty of both people and furniture. Daemon shoved Criston Cole inside. Cole stood his ground and returned the shove, forcing Daemon back a step.

Daemon advanced, grinning, stood chest to chest with his prey, his dark mirror. He could have pushed and shoved and beaten Cole, but he did not wish to break the man like a Lyseni catamite. He wanted to see what Cole would do. He wanted Cole to submit. 

Cole turned and marched into the chamber as into a melee. Once inside, he turned back to face Daemon and drew his sword just enough for Daemon to see the glint of steel, then shoved it back into its scabbard, unbuckled his belt and propped his sword up against the wall, and lifted his chin in defiance. A gauntlet picked up and another flung down.

Daemon advanced into the room, slammed the door to and barred it. He would relish this without interruptions.

Even so, the moment after he dropped the heavy bar across the door was one of doubt. He did not wish to rip the Kingsguard out of his white clothes, nor did he intend to cajole and beg.

He need not have worried. Flea Bottom whores, royal princesses, and grown men shared one trait – a lack of patience for coyness. 

Criston Cole unlaced his white breeches, keeping his eyes locked with Daemon’s the while, taunting the prince with the dexterity of his fingers as much as the girth of the hard cock he revealed. Daemon began to salivate and reached for his own laces. He suspected that, for all his manly bravado, Cole was a maid. How sweet a bite it would be.

Once they were both naked and measuring each other, so similar in height, breadth, and strength, Daemon seized the reins at once, lest Cole got it into his head that this would be a bout between equals. Daemon advanced rapidly across the dusty floor and shoved at Cole’s chest with his sword hand.

This time Cole was ready for him and grabbed his forearm with both hands. They stood, the arc described by their arms tense as a bowstring, muscles and cocks straining for greater proximity, neither willing to yield. Not yet. Daemon lifted his left hand slowly, so Cole would see it coming, and laid it on Cole’s shoulder, near the juncture with the neck – a most vulnerable spot. He neither squeezed nor pinched. 

“Stand still. The King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea commands you.”

Cole’s expression turned derisive, but he obeyed. He was falling into Daemon’s trap already. Daemon kept his delight at this hidden as he released Cole and dropped down, squatting on his haunches. If Cole refused to kneel for him, Daemon Targaryen certainly would not kneel for a steward’s son. 

Daemon balanced on his heels, laid his palms against the wall either side of Cole’s thighs, and tongued Cole’s cockstand; tongued it again, the slit, the thin, wet skin; would not look up or close his lips around the glistening head. On the third time, teasing and laving as he liked it done to him, letting himself be teased before he claimed what was his, his own cock beginning to strain as he made Cole’s wetter, finally he heard Cole release a low moan. 

As though a flaming arrow had gone up to signal the start of battle, Daemon seized the moment when Cole’s guard was lowered. He stood, took in Cole’s closed eyes, his open mouth. Knowing he had less than the span of a breath before Cole came to, he grabbed Cole’s arm and turned him around so the Kingsguard faced the wall. Cole tensed up at once when Daemon caught him, pushed him against rough stone, Daemon’s body pressing into him from behind, from collarbone to knee. Daemon held Cole’s arms in an iron grip, pressed his loins against Cole’s backside. Cole stilled, still tense in anticipated combat or just anticipation.

Daemon did not ask him if he would submit. He knew the answer already, would not give Cole the chance to claim insult or injury after the act was done. Daemon resisted the temptation to lick Cole’s neck where a bead of sweat ran down from his dark hair, behind his ear – they were not men of tenderness, not together. 

“I know what you Kingsguards are like,” Daemon taunted, mouth close to Cole’s ear. “All six line up with mouth or arse for the Lord Commander to sample and choose from. You must love it, _Lord Commander_. The power. And yet I’d wager your hole will be tighter than Rhaenyra’s was.” Daemon remembered the salt spray, the singing of their two dragons, Rhaenyra’s cries and how quickly she’d started to writhe against him, begging him to touch her little button while he’d impaled her pert, maidenly arse, again and again.

Cole made no sound, but his muscular buttocks twitched, pressing against Daemon’s insistent flesh. Daemon wanted to smash his head against the wall, for making Rhaenyra cry, for making Rhaenyra refuse Daemon what was rightfully his; refrained because striking a man like Criston Cole was not remotely the best way to defeat him. One man would not admit his pleasure by moaning, the other would not crow in triumph when deeds spoke so much more loudly. 

Daemon was as good as his word: he would not make Criston Cole kneel for him against his will. He grabbed Cole’s narrow hips, angled Cole’s body while Cole braced himself with his palms flat against the wall. He was tense from head to toe, but Daemon would not tell him to relax. Cole knew as much, surely, so he must have wanted some pain to justify his pleasure.

Daemon preferred to bed women, on the whole, though a boy was a good morsel, a treat after a feast. Especially on campaign, used-up camp followers could not compare with a fresh squire; some squires Daemon had known, could have competed against the best whores for skill. 

Fully grown men, all hard muscle and long limbs, were not to Daemon’s usual taste, but he suspected there wasn’t a man at court who would not have envied him right now. Criston Cole was a man of astonishing beauty, for one of his low origins. 

Daemon spread Cole’s buttocks, considered spitting on his hole, to see if that wouldn’t make the proud knight jump and swear. 

Deciding against anything that might seem a kindness, Daemon plunged home. 

Cole’s breath hissed between his teeth, but he offered no resistance or complaint. He was tight, as Daemon had suspected, unbreached till now. Daemon gripped his hips, sweat starting to roll down his own chest, and claimed Cole, heavy balls slapping against Cole’s. 

For a moment, they stood motionless, Cole’s ribcage expanding and contracting with deep, silent breaths, Daemon marveling at how hard his heart cantered already – he prided himself on his control – marveling at the long, muscular back before him, the sight of his pale private hair against Cole’s skin. He shifted his grip from taut hips to the sharp jut of left hipbone, the clenched right shoulder, his strong hands gripping, the better to keep Cole still, and started to fuck in earnest. 

Cole’s breath caught, but still he would not moan. He spread his fingers and braced his forearms, muscles and tendons standing out along his arms and back, so as not to crack his head against the wall. Daemon felt him brace his legs also, as Daemon took him, imagined Cole biting his lip so as to make no sound, nostrils flared as he choked down the pleasure, the pain.

Daemon might have drawn it out, made Cole beg like a whore ( _like Rhaenyra_ ), but Daemon’s patience was frayed already. He panted like a dog as he rode Cole, watched his arsehole become red and swollen as Daemon’s manhood slid in and out of him, faster, inflamed even more by the sight, the feel of Cole, slick and tight as a fist. Cole still would not make a sound, but he clenched mid-stroke, not as a skilled lover would have done – as though he had half a thought to urge Daemon on, and half a thought to expel him.

Daemon laughed, pulled Cole back into his thrusts, indulged a moment to tip his head back, let the sensations wash over him as he kept thrusting hard, forcing Cole’s breath out in short, sharp bursts. Regaining control of himself, Daemon gripped harder, shifted his hips just a bit as he kept up the punishing pace; drank in Cole’s helpless moan when the altered angle allowed Daemon to wrench pleasure from Cole, no matter how much Cole wanted to deny he felt any. Daemon released Cole’s hip and leaned forward, keeping Cole still with his hand on Cole’s shoulder, his body pressed against Cole’s back, sweat to sweat, and kept rutting. He brushed his hand under Cole, from the collarbone down, over all that hard muscle, till he felt Cole’s full, heavy cock bobbing, dripping on the dusty flagstones. Daemon’s fire leapt higher to think of Cole, desperate for a hand to wrap around him yet unwilling to give in.

Daemon’s balls tightened, his heart was about to leap out of his chest. Not yet, he was not done yet. He pulled out, gripped himself at the base to fight down his pleasure, closed his eyes to black out the sight of Cole’s sweat-slick flesh, his undefeated body.

Daemon only allowed himself a moment before he opened his eyes, placed his hands on Cole’s hip and shoulder, and turned Cole around to face him. 

“You will open your mouth. If you won’t kneel, do it however you wish.”

A mercy, and Cole knew it. Watching Daemon through narrowed eyes, his red lips swollen, for he must have been biting them while Daemon rode him, slowly Cole lowered himself to the floor, till he sat with his legs outstretched and spread, Daemon straddling his thighs. 

Daemon would not, could not wait. He grabbed a fistful of black hair even as Cole opened his mouth willingly enough. 

Despite Daemon’s taunts about the Kingsguard as an order of cocksuckers, Criston Cole had no skill, nor would he have endeavored to please Daemon if he had. Cole kept his eyes open and looked Daemon in the eye, not in seduction, but in continuous challenge. 

Once he was certain Cole would not bite, Daemon let go of Cole’s hair, braced his thighs and knees, steadying himself with his forearms against the wall, and fucked Cole’s mouth with the same savage abandon with which he’d fucked his arse. Looking down the hard, scarred, muscular plains of his chest and stomach, Daemon watched his cock pulse between those red lips, stretched and wet, a single tear of effort sliding out of Cole’s narrowed, green eye, yet Cole neither blinked nor averted his gaze from Daemon’s. He imagined how Cole’s jaw must hurt, which made his hips thrust all the harder.

“You serve well, son of Cole the steward,” Daemon choked out as his pleasure began to crest, finally, and he left off watching Cole watch him, so he could tip his head back and bend his whole body forward to claim Cole’s mouth.

Daemon Targaryen did not let others claim him, not in any of the brothel games he enjoyed, not in any of the rougher sport to be found in soldiers’ encampments. Yet he recognized the feel of a finger, held stiff as a small lance, pushing up between his buttocks, forcing itself in. He roared in anger at the drag of Criston Cole’s finger, pushing roughly in and out of him, as he spent his seed down Cole’s throat and Cole made a choking noise, Daemon’s loins pressing against his face, the back of Cole’s head striking the wall with a dull crack. Daemon’s pleasure continued unabated, drawn out between Cole’s mouth and Cole’s finger. Finally Daemon was spent, hung suspended between purpose and emptiness, head lolling back, held upright only by his palms against the stone wall, Cole’s face pressed to him, and Cole’s finger still twisting in his arse. 

Daemon pushed up and away, off the wall, off Cole. The rage and violence still pulsing through him, dizzying as they tore through the remnants of his pleasure, diminished when Daemon took in Cole’s face, remade by what Daemon had done to him and shiny with triumph. Cole’s cock was in his fist, still red and hard. Cole was squeezing and stroking it rapidly as he sat spread-legged on the stone floor, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with his hand, still silent. Daemon had to admire the inhuman control it must have taken for Cole not to take himself in hand before, to hold off and wait until Daemon was watching him.

Cole’s voice was a breathless rat-tat-tat, like a soldier’s drum, while he worked himself up, palmed his balls and rolled them as though offering them up to Daemon. “The man who recognizes his limitations is stronger than the man ruled by his pride. I might take _you_ , you needn’t even kneel. Just put your hands on the floor and bend a little.”

Daemon’s fire flared painfully to life at the prospect. He might, for a fortnight or a moon’s turn, let his pleasure govern him unchecked, a whirlwind sweeping the Narrow Sea. He could see himself, a long bow of hard muscle, Cole’s legs pressed to the backs of his, straight and taut, Cole’s balls slapping his, Cole’s sword-calloused hand stroking his cock, wrenching him closer, while he plundered Daemon in his turn. Daemon imagined Rhaenyra watching them, flushed and wet, Rhaenyra folding herself under the two men, so Daemon might ride her as he was ridden. She had enjoyed especially watching two men together – the more strapping the better, Rhaenyra’s tastes did not run to slim boys – when Daemon had taken her to the Street of Silk, dressed as his page. She would always urge the rider on, her voice tight with arousal and her little fists clenched as around her dragon’s reins, drinking in the sight of the ridden’s sweaty, slack-jawed face, the sound of his helpless moans as he was buggered hard, his frantic pleas to be taken even harder, to be obliterated.

Daemon watched Cole watching him, and ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. At the sight, Cole spilled over his fist and the flagstones, squeezing his cockhead, his swollen lips opening silently, his eyes never leaving Daemon’s. 

In the silence which ensued, Daemon pulled on his breeches and shirt, while Cole wiped his hand on his thigh and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. 

“Ser Criston,” Daemon said. 

Criston Cole opened his eyes and looked at him, spent, claimed, had, yet unvanquished. 

Daemon looked him in the eye, as though they were equals. “That will never happen.” 

Not a taunt or a challenge or a veiled promise, but merely the plain truth. Daemon Targaryen would not let another man take him, no matter how tempting it seemed when his blood was up. He did not need to ponder long or hard to know that much. Targaryens devoured others; they did not get devoured.

Criston Cole watched him with glacial hostility in his green eyes as Daemon lifted the bar from the door and went out into the still-empty corridor. Daemon knew he’d made an enemy today, but then the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was never going to give him obeisance, no matter what, probably not even were Daemon king. 

Once he returned to his chambers and called for warm water to bathe before the night’s feast, Daemon imagined Criston Cole gathering his clothes, returning to the White Sword Tower, aching and unsteady, feeling Daemon inside him while he stood behind the king’s chair that evening, beside the Iron Throne the next day; feeling anew how Daemon had buggered him ( _fingering Daemon while Daemon roared and spilled his seed down Cole’s insolent throat_ ) as he met Daemon’s indifferent gaze across the throne room. Daemon told himself Criston Cole’s slighted pride was nature’s just tribute to Daemon, Cole’s enmity nothing a dragon need concern himself with; that Cole’s refusal to voice his pleasure, to admit his need, had been undone by the man’s abject willingness to let himself be used. Cole was only another knight, in the end, one of many. Only a man.


End file.
